Until the story becomes their own

Sitting on a bench in the library, I noticed a group of children, no older than five or six, huddled together, poring over a picture book. Curious about their excitement, I walked over, only for them to eagerly hand me the book and begin narrating the story. These children couldn’t yet read the words, but that didn’t stop them. They took turns weaving a tale from the illustrations, drawing from their own imaginations, inserting themselves into the narrative, and building a story together. I was so intrigued. They weren’t close to the original plot, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was their story and they were fully immersed in the act of storytelling.

What is a library?

While working in community libraries, I often find myself returning to a deceptively simple question: What is a library? Despite spending years within these spaces, I struggle to arrive at a definition that feels complete. The term library is frequently used as an umbrella under which a wide range of activities, relationships, and aspirations are housed. Yet perhaps it is precisely this expansiveness that captures its essence. How does one define a library? What constitutes it? Is it merely a room filled with books, tables, and chairs?

For many, the image of a library evokes neatly arranged shelves, silent reading halls, and spaces dedicated to individual study. Such a definition, however, fails to capture the social, political, and transformative potential of libraries. Perhaps each of us carries our own understanding of what a library is, shaped by our experiences and encounters with these spaces. I too remember libraries differently as a child: quiet rooms where I was often more interested in sneakily talking to friends than reading the books around me. Somehow, I still grew into an adult who loves reading. Yet this trajectory is not universal, nor can it be assumed.

Our experiences at Bansa Community Library reveal that people relate to libraries in remarkably different ways. Some come seeking books, others – companionship, guidance, respite, opportunity, or simply a place where they feel welcome. Individuals access the space for reasons that extend far beyond reading alone. Yet, across these diverse experiences, a common thread emerges: the library is consistently described as a space that feels like their own. It is perceived as a space for the community and by the community, one shaped by local realities, responsive to local aspirations, and sustained through collective participation.

At Bansa Community Library, the library can be many things for many people. Above all, however, it is a dynamic space where the right to read is not merely proclaimed but actively realized and practiced. It serves as a crucial site for access to knowledge, particularly for those who have historically been excluded from educational and cultural resources. More than a repository of books, the library creates conditions for dialogue, critical reflection, and what Paulo Freire describes as conscientization: the process through which individuals develop a critical awareness of their social realities and their capacity to transform them.

Reigniting curiosity 

When Bansa Community Library was established, the driving force behind it was to help people experience the joy of reading. We sought to cultivate an environment where reading was not experienced as an obligation but as a source of pleasure, imagination, and possibility. This objective emerged in response to a broader reality in which reading is often monopolized by a section of the society or sometimes by formal educational institutions and reduced to an instrument for examinations, credentials, and economic mobility. For many children, books enter their lives not as symbols of joy but as a test of their capabilities. Learning, consequently, becomes associated with burden rather than wonder.

Within our village, it is common to hear people point toward a child who appears disengaged from school or reading and describe them as uninterested or unmotivated. Such explanations individualize what is fundamentally a structural issue. They locate the problem within the child while leaving unquestioned the systems and institutions that shape their experiences. Rarely do we ask a different set of questions: What kinds of educational structures lead children to disengage from reading in the first place? To suggest that a child is inherently disinterested in learning is, in many ways, to ignore one of the most fundamental aspects of human existence. Human beings are curious by nature. From the moment children begin to speak, they ask questions relentlessly. They seek explanations, experiment with their surroundings, and attempt to make sense of the world. When this curiosity appears absent, the more meaningful question is not what is wrong with the child, but what has happened to the conditions that once nurtured that curiosity. 

At Bansa Community Library, much of our work revolves around nurturing the curiosity that children already arrive with. Children come equipped with questions, wonder, imagination, and an endless desire to make sense of the people, places, and experiences around them. The role of the library, therefore, is not to provide definitive answers but to create conditions where this curiosity can continue to flourish.

Stories become central to this process. As human beings, we have long relied on stories to understand ourselves and the world around us. We make meaning through narratives; we share experiences, values, histories, fears, and dreams through stories. Stories allow us to encounter lives different from our own, to inhabit unfamiliar perspectives, and to recognize that there is rarely a single truth through which the world can be understood. They invite us to hold multiple possibilities at once.

For children, reading offers a similar opportunity. Children’s literature expands the imagination and cultivates the habit of questioning. A good story rarely provides simple answers. Instead, it invites children to wonder, and to ask further questions. And often, in the search for one answer, they stumble upon more beautiful questions, questions that lead them toward new curiosities, and new journeys of discovery. 

The custodians of books

Central to this work is the library’s collection. The books housed within Bansa Community Library are not assembled arbitrarily; they are carefully selected and curated with the community in mind. The collection includes books in regional languages, stories rooted in local contexts, narratives that reflect diverse social realities, and texts that introduce children to experiences beyond their immediate surroundings. Such curation is particularly important in contexts where mainstream publishing and educational systems often privilege dominant languages, cultures, and perspectives while marginalizing others.

As a locally led and autonomous institution, the library is able to respond directly to the aspirations, interests, and lived realities of its community. This enables the collection to function not only as a window into other worlds but also as a mirror in which readers can recognize themselves. Representation matters not simply because people wish to see themselves reflected, but because the absence of such representation can communicate that certain lives, languages, and experiences are less worthy of being documented, celebrated, or remembered. 

Yet the existence of a carefully curated collection alone does not guarantee readership. Books do not automatically become meaningful simply because they are available on a shelf. Access to literature is not solely a question of availability; it is also a question of relationships, trust, and engagement. A book often begins its journey into a reader’s life through a recommendation, a read-aloud session, a conversation with a librarian, or the enthusiasm of another child. The circulation of children’s literature, therefore, depends not only on collections but on the social relationships that bring books to life. It is through these relationships that stories move beyond the shelves and become part of the everyday experiences of readers.

If there is one thing that Bansa Community Library holds most dearly, it is relationships. Much of our work is devoted to building, sustaining, and nurturing relationships. Relationships between librarians and readers. Relationships among community members themselves. Relationships between people and books. Relationships between individuals and the broader world of ideas that literature opens up. It is through these interconnected relationships that the library comes alive.

At the centre of this ecosystem stands the librarian. While libraries are often imagined through their collections, spaces, or programmes, we have found that the librarian is perhaps the most important element of all. A librarian possesses the potential to profoundly shape a child’s relationship with reading, learning, and ultimately with themselves. Through everyday interactions, encouragement, recommendations, and acts of care, they can alter the trajectory of a child’s engagement with knowledge in ways that are difficult to measure but impossible to ignore.

At Bansa Community Library, librarians are literal custodians of books. They are members of the community itself. They share the social worlds of the people who visit the library and possess a deep understanding of the local context. They know the children who walk through the doors each day: not merely by name, but through relationships built over time. They know who is just beginning their reading journey, who has recently developed confidence as a reader, who enjoys stories about animals, who prefers mysteries, who struggles with longer texts, and who has been eagerly waiting for the next book recommendation. Such knowledge is gathered through years of conversations, observations, and shared experiences.

The library’s commitment to relationships extends beyond its walls. Through community walks, librarians and volunteers regularly move through the village, meeting families, inviting new members, listening to concerns, and maintaining connections with existing readers. These walks are not simply outreach activities; they are acts of persistence and care. They communicate that the library is invested in people, even when people are unable to come to the library themselves.

Similarly, initiatives such as book packets ensure that books continue to travel beyond the physical space of the library. By delivering carefully selected books directly to readers, the library recognizes that access is not achieved merely by opening doors. Access requires actively responding to the realities, constraints, and circumstances of community members.

These relationships are grounded in mutual respect. The library does not position itself as a space where knowledge flows in only one direction. Children are not treated as passive recipients waiting to be taught. Instead, they are recognized as individuals with their own forms of knowledge. Librarians learn from readers just as readers learn from librarians. This mutual respect creates an environment where children feel valued, listened to, and comfortable expressing themselves. It is perhaps this feeling of being seen and respected that forms the foundation upon which meaningful learning can occur.

Reading together, reading aloud

One of the most significant ways in which these relationships are nurtured is through read-aloud sessions. Every day at least one read-aloud is facilitated by the librarians. Yet what appears to be a simple act of reading a book aloud is supported by substantial preparation and care. Librarians read the selected text multiple times beforehand, develop lesson plans, prepare activities, anticipate discussion points, and later document reflections and observations through reports. Considerable thought goes into ensuring that the story is not merely read but experienced.

The read-aloud itself transforms the library. Children gather together, listening intently, laughing at familiar moments, questioning characters’ decisions, making predictions, and drawing connections to their own lives. Importantly, the discussion that follows the reading is often as significant as the book itself. Children encounter perspectives different from their own, learn to listen to others, articulate their thoughts, and engage with multiple interpretations of the same text. Through these conversations, they begin to understand that stories, much like life, rarely have a single meaning.

Yet, what is particularly remarkable is that the read-aloud culture does not end when the formal session concludes. Although librarians facilitate one structured read-aloud each day, numerous informal read-alouds emerge throughout the library. In different corners of the space, children can often be seen reading to one another. They gather around favourite books, share stories they recently discovered, read books whose covers intrigued them, or explore titles recommended by friends. Sometimes older readers read to younger children; at other times, children of similar ages read together, helping one another navigate unfamiliar words and ideas. In these moments, literature circulates through peer relationships, and children themselves become active mediators of reading.

To deepen children’s engagement with stories, librarians also encourage them to create book reports. These reports are intentionally designed to accommodate different forms of expression and can be completed orally, through writing, or through drawing. Rather than focusing on factual recall, the questions invite reflection and interpretation. Children are encouraged to think about which character they connected with most, who they believe the story was really about, how they imagine the world of the book, or what they might have done differently if they were part of the story. Such questions move beyond comprehension and invite children into a deeper relationship with the text. They encourage readers to linger with stories long after the final page has been turned, transforming reading from an act of consumption into a process of meaning-making.

So, what is a library?

The impact of these relationships is perhaps most visible in how readers describe the library. One child explained that it is the warmth and welcoming nature of the space that keeps drawing her back: “comfortable feeling, woh swagat wala mahual, mujhe har din library aane ka mann karta hai” (“That comfortable feeling, that welcoming environment makes me want to come to the library every day”). Another reflected on how different the library feels from school, explaining, “School toh theek hai lekin library… library mein alag lagta hai” (“School is fine, but the library feels different”). He went on to describe the ways in which the library had expanded his understanding of the world: “Main apne chhoto se seekh raha hoon, main apne bado se seekh raha hoon” (“I am learning from those younger than me and from those older than me”). Most strikingly, he reflected, “Mere sochne ki shakti itni badi hai yahan aane se, yahan ki baaton se. Pehle nahi soch pata tha, ab har cheez ke baare mein soch pata hoon” (“My ability to think has grown so much by coming here and through the conversations that happen here. Earlier I could not think like this; now I can think about everything”).

Perhaps this is what a library finally is: not the room, the shelves, or even the books, but what happens between them. When I think back to those children narrating a story they could not yet read, I no longer see children waiting to become readers. I see readers already — curious, imaginative, certain that the story was theirs to tell. A library, at its best, does not hand children a single finished meaning to receive. It offers them the conditions, the books, the relationships, the welcome, to keep asking questions, and to discover that they have always had the capacity to think for themselves. That is the work we return to each day at Bansa: not to teach children to read, but to protect the wonder they arrive with, and to stay with stories long enough that the stories become their own.